


Moving On

by Elwen_of_the_hidden_valley



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Minas Tirith, Post-Quest of the Ring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-03
Updated: 2020-08-03
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:15:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25690432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elwen_of_the_hidden_valley/pseuds/Elwen_of_the_hidden_valley
Summary: A reworking of one of my older fics.  After the Ring's destruction, Frodo elects to remain in the city of Minas Tirith when his friends take a little trip down river.  Still troubled by his claiming of the Ring, he is suddenly taken ill and thrown into Legolas' care.
Comments: 5
Kudos: 36





	Moving On

**Author's Note:**

> The original events, characters and places all belong to JRR Tolkien. I am only imagining stories in the cracks of the tale.

Frodo closed his book on a sigh, setting a ribbon as marker, before letting it fall to his lap. He had been reading this, 'History of the Stewards', for several days. It was interesting enough, but the ancient text was difficult to decipher, and this morning he could not seem to find the required energy to pick his way through the crabbed letters.

He considered taking a stroll in the fresh air, but it was the chill wind outside that had driven him to his current perch in the sunny window embrasure. Frodo felt the cold more nowadays, and he sank further into the soft cushion at his back as he let his gaze drop to the courtyard below. The viewpoint made him feel a little dizzy, despite having grown more used to heights while navigating the high stairways and deep chasms of Cirith Ungol.

Several stories below, Pippin and Gandalf strolled, obviously deep in conversation. The wizards face was hidden to Frodo by the wide brim of his hat, but Pippin was clearly visible, curly head bobbing, arms gesticulating wildly to emphasise some point in his narrative. Despite the dangers of his own journey Pippin's bright spirit was indomitable, and Frodo smiled with them as the two below threw back their heads in unison, laughing at some humorous comment one or the other had made. He watched them follow Merry and Sam out through the archway and down the road, toward the shattered remains of the city gates. 

The erstwhile Fellowship were scattered about the city of Minas Tirith. Aragorn was seen rarely, and was always surrounded by a cadre of advisors or soldiers. Gimli was supervising the repair of a section of city wall, but Legolas had stopped by briefly, to farewell the little party below. It felt odd to be alone in his own head and yet, despite the absence of that other, Frodo found it difficult to sift through the emotions and events of the past months, particularly when he was always under someone’s watchful eye. He was looking forward to having no-one peering over his shoulder for the next few days.

Closing his eyes, Frodo basked in the heat of sun through glass, and rubbed the back of his neck absently. He must have slept with his head at an odd angle last night, for he could feel a soreness in the muscles there. The beds and pillows here were too big and he missed his cosy little room in Bag End. That thought gave him pause, for even if he returned to the Shire, the little cottage in Crickhollow would never be his cosy Bag End. 

A light, confident, tap at the door drew Frodo's attention back to the room, and he bit back another sigh. Each time he thought to gain some time alone someone turned up. “Come in”, he called, with barely hidden frustration. Swinging around in his seat he let his feet dangle over the edge, and wished, for perhaps the one hundredth time, for more hobbit-scaled surroundings. Indeed, the scale of buildings in Minas Tirith seemed to dwarf even it's usual residents. He wondered just how tall those people from Numenor had actually been.

Legolas' arrival in the sun-drenched chamber softened his peevish mood a little. He had grown to appreciate the elf’s diffident company, for his first question was never about Frodo's health or his silence, topics which seemed ever to the forefront of others minds. Like many elves, he did not seem much interested in the affairs of mortals, although during their long journey from Rivendell to Amon Hen he had grown a little more forthcoming. (It was difficult to do otherwise with a hobbit as curious as Pippin around.) 

Since their reunion, in Ithilien, Frodo had come to appreciate his uncomplicated company, and the pair had taken to strolling together in one or other of the small gardens of the city. Conversation was sparse, their sojourns a simple sharing of the beauty to be found in tree and flower. The elf demanded nothing of him, allowing Frodo to set the pace of both relationship and walk. Experiences of the past months had left Frodo bruised in mind as well as body, and Legolas was tolerant of his long silences. 

“Good morning, Frodo. Sam said I may find you here.” 

Frodo smiled ruefully. “Good morning, Legolas. It was too cold to sit in the garden and I wanted to finish my book.” He nodded at the large, blue bound, tome now at his side on the seat.

“I see you are still ruled by your pride, then?” The elf smiled, a flash of dimples. It had become a joke between them. On more than one occasion Legolas had assisted Frodo in the translation of a particularly difficult passage within the ancient volume, had even once suggested that he try a different version from the towers’ huge library. The stubborn Frodo had gasped, in mock horror, declaring that its translation was a matter of pride; that he refused to let the text defeat him. It was, nowadays, a rare flash of humour from Frodo, and Legolas used every opportunity to play upon it. 

Frodo’s laughter was bright, a brief beam of sunlight in his clouded soul. “I shall finish this book, if the book does not finish me first.” 

Legolas’ dimples returned. “But not this morning, Frodo. Sunshine and fresh air beckon.” 

For a moment, Frodo actually discovered that he was tempted, then glanced over his shoulder where, beyond the window, banners atop tall spires, snapped in the sharp breeze. “The wind is too cold today. I think I prefer to stay indoors.” 

Legolas wore his usual silk shirt and suede jerkin. He had not even donned a cloak, and Frodo was reminded of fine leather shoes, stepping surely atop banked snow. “If you don a warm cloak you will not feel it so much,” the elf persisted. A little furrow was forming between his brows as he studied his friend. 

Frodo sighed inwardly. From a brief glance in his looking glass this morning, he knew that he looked paler than usual and his eyes were dull. Legolas, like all of the Fellowship, could not fail to know that the erstwhile ring-bearer often suffered from nightmares, and Frodo squirmed a little under his assessing gaze. 

When Legolas' expectant silence declared that he would not be put off, Frodo resolved to put a good face on it, and hopped down from his seat. “Very well. Perhaps I could do with a break. The passage I’m reading is particularly di . . .” He grabbed the edge of the window seat as a slight ripple of dizziness caught him unaware. 

Legolas was immediately at his side, soft voice filled with concern. “Frodo?” 

Blue eyes blinked and the vertigo faded, as quickly as it had come. “I’m alright,” Frodo, let go of the seat and tugged at his waistcoat. “I just stood up too quickly. Let me fetch my coat.” 

He could feel the elf’s piercing gaze as he crossed to the bed to retrieve his jacket, and was careful to keep his back to Legolas as he fought with the buttons. With only three fingers on his right hand, they were still a challenge, but after several moments of fumbling he finally managed to fasten them and turned, jamming his hand into a pocket. “Shall we go?” 

Legolas began to follow him to the door, then stayed his companion with a hand on his shoulder. “You have forgotten your cloak.” 

Frodo had not worn his cloak for days. The elven clasp was beautifully fashioned but his clumsy right hand just could not make it to work. The first time he tried to wear it, since awakening in Ithilien, Sam had to fasten it for him. Frodo had avoided it ever since. Trying to recover some measure of self confidence, the last thing he needed was to rely upon others to help him dress. Frodo could almost feel Sam’s fingers twitching every time he watched his master trying to fasten the small horn buttons of a shirt. 

He tried to shrug off Legolas’ grip and was thankful that he had his back to the elf as the action tweaked at sore neck muscles. A prince of elves is not easily shrugged off, however, nor is a friend. Picking up Frodo's cloak, Legolas drew it around the hobbits shoulders, wordlessly dropping to one knee to fasten the clasp. 

So he had guessed. At least he had spared Frodo the indignity of having to acknowledge that he needed help. With a bright smile, Legolas opened the door and Frodo followed him from the room.

A great many of the houses in Minas Tirith were still empty and boarded up; their occupants temporarily moved to safer havens. Some folk had begun to return but there were still many empty and untended gardens, and Legolas seemed to have a knack for discovering all of them, and finding a way in. Today he led Frodo down an unfamiliar street, pushing open an unobtrusive blue door, to usher his fellow explorer into a high walled garden. The breeze dropped immediately, and as Legolas closed the gate behind them, the sounds of the city outside became a distant whisper. Frodo paused, enchanted.

Like many a garden they had encountered within the city, it was centred around a fountain. This one had a basin formed in the semblance of a large flat seashell. No water splashed in it now. Roses and many other types of shrub, some unknown to Frodo, clung to the white stone walls, and in borders before them bright flowers bloomed, despite the choking weeds. Around the fountain a pavement had been laid, its slabs forming an intricate geometrical pattern of pink and yellow. Birds were calling in the shrubs and a solitary butterfly flitted amongst the flowers. 

Frodo inhaled deeply. Minas Tirith smelled of cold stone, smoke and other less savoury smells of a city, but here the odours were overridden by the musk of damp loam and the delicate scent of late blooming hyacinth. It brought back echoes of the gardens at Bag End, and Frodo closed his eyes, trying to remember the borders by the gate. He staggered as another wave of dizziness hit him from nowhere, and would have fallen, had Legolas not caught his shoulders. Frodo's eyes flew open in alarm and he squinted in sunlight that was suddenly too bright. Wordlessly, his companion drew him to sit upon a low bench by the silent fountain and hunkered down to bring their faces level.

“Are you unwell, Frodo?” There was that little furrow between his winged eyebrows again. 

Frodo blinked furiously, drawing in several deep breaths until the dizziness faded. “It’s nothing. I’m just a little tired. I didn’t sleep well last night.” He dropped his gaze to stare at his hands, folded neatly in his lap, left upon right. 

“Are you sure? You look a little pale today. Should I send for a healer?” Legolas' soft voice was filled with concern, but Frodo was tired of being coddled. 

“I am perfectly alright, Legolas,” he blurted out, with more vehemence than intended. He glanced up hurriedly, but Legolas' face was impassive. For a moment Frodo thought he would insist, then he simply stood and offered a steadying hand as Frodo clambered down from the bench. Wordlessly, Legolas guided him about the jewel-like garden. 

As they walked, Frodo mused in an attempt to distract himself from a burgeoning headache. It was often difficult to judge what elves were thinking. They always seemed a little distant and during the journey from Rivendell Frodo had been too preoccupied to make an effort to get more acquainted with Legolas. For his part, Legolas had never pressed a relationship. Elves had hundreds of years to build friendships, and Frodo assumed it must be difficult to form one with a mortal. It was clear Legolas and Gimli had become close friends at some point, but even dwarves generally lived longer than hobbits. His eye was distracted by the powder blue butterfly, as it flitted from garden flower to weed with equal partiality, and Frodo wondered if elves saw mortals like a butterfly; here today and gone tomorrow? 

No further words were spoken until they said their farewells at the door to Frodo's chamber. When Legolas stooped to unfasten the clasp at his neck Frodo felt a twinge of unreasoning anger. Would he ever be the independent gentlehobbit he had once been? When the door separated them, he flung down the cloak and made directly for the bed. His neck was feeling even more tender, and the headache was growing worse so, setting his back to the light,Frodo closed burning eyes and buried himself in sleep.

When Frodo awoke next he noted, with some annoyance, that his headache was no better. Rolling over he saw the sun sinking in a pale turquoise sky, dotted with dark lilac clouds. Had he been that tired? The roiling state of his stomach forbade food so he decided that a glass of water would suffice, and sat up rather gingerly. 

The action was a mistake and Frodo grabbed his head, squeezing shut his eyes as the throbbing increased. Determined not to surrender he stood, biting down upon a moan, and took a step towards the table, with its inviting carafe of water. The room performed a slow spin and he watched with a strange detachment as the floor came up towards him. A voice cried out, (was it his own?) as his head smacked the wooden boards. Then his world went black.

-0-

Someone was moving quietly about the room, or at least attempting to. The footfalls reverberated in Frodo’s ears, forming a counterpoint to the loud drumming in his head. He was lying upon his back, in what he assumed was a bed, draped warmly in soft blankets and linen sheets. Unwilling yet, to announce to whoever it was that he was awake, Frodo tried to piece together the events that had led him there. After a few moments he gave up the effort to connect garden and bed, and opened his eyes. 

The chamber was dark, except for the flicker of firelight on the walls and the soft yellow glow of a candle at his bedside. 

“Frodo?” Frodo rolled his head carefully toward the light voice, wincing as the drumming in his head found a new volume. 

Legolas was standing at the bedside, his expression worried. At his side was a man Frodo had not met before. 

“How did I get to bed?” 

“I returned to invite you to supper, and discovered you lying upon the floor.” 

The stranger came closer, “How do you feel now, Master Baggins?” 

Heartily sick of feeling sick, Frodo tried not to frown as he mumbled, “Just a bit of a headache. Probably got too much sun. Be alright after some sleep.” 

But the other was not so easily convinced. “I am called Darien and I am a healer. Can you tell me if you hurt anywhere else?” 

Frodo sighed and started to sit up. He regretted it immediately as a sharp pain in his neck made him yelp and the headache suddenly became unbearable. The pain was so intense that his stomach rebelled and he just managed to roll onto his side before throwing up violently. For a moment he felt someone’s hand supporting his head, then blackness descended again.

“He is awakening.” Frodo recognised Legolas’ sueded voice at his ear. At least it did not reverberate as much as the other’s. “Come, Frodo, drink this.” A gentle hand slipped beneath the pillow and raised his head; just enough to allow him to swallow. Even so careful a movement was enough to make Frodo whimper in renewed pain. 

“I am sorry, Frodo, but you must drink this. It will ease your pain. I promise.” 

A few drops of liquid were trickled between his lips and Frodo swallowed reflexively. It tasted very bitter but he swallowed again when a little more was dribbled into his mouth. He just wanted them to leave him alone, and if swallowing would achieve that he was willing to co-operate. Frodo longed for the comforting presence of Sam or Gandalf, or perhaps Bilbo. His shoulders were lowered and a something warm and damp was draped across his brow and eyes. There was a clean scent of mint and the world drifted away once more. 

“Frodo?” The voice was becoming insistent, and Frodo's fogged mind registered that he had been hearing the soft repetition of his name for some time. He tried to focus through the pain but it was difficult to ignore the throbbing. The voice continued calling his name and was now accompanied by a gentle squeezing of his right hand. 

“Sam?” Frodo forced open leaden eyelids and found himself looking, instead, into Legolas’ clear blue eyes. They held a look that reminded the hobbit of those days after leaving Moria, and Frodo wondered what had happened to upset him so. 

“Sam is not here, Frodo. He has gone away for a few days. Do you not remember?” Frodo made the mistake of nodding, then closed his eyes as the throbbing in his head reached a new crescendo. Of course Sam was not here. 

Merry and Pippin had been fascinated by the large ships tied up on the river, and eventually managed to wrangle a berth for a short adventure. The ship was making a cargo run to a town at the mouth of the Anduin and Aragorn would be aboard. He was trying to sort out a particularly knotty diplomatic problem with a local mayor, and Gandalf had agreed to lend his support to the fledgling king. It was anticipated that the voyage would keep them away from the city for about ten days. 

Gimli declined to join the party, pointing out that there was good stonework to take care of. Legolas had firmly refused all attempts to include him. Frodo suspected he knew the reason but was too polite to mention it. Several times, over the past weeks, he had surprised a distant look in the elf’s eyes whenever the mournful cry of a gull could be heard. 

Everyone assumed that Frodo would be joining them and he encouraged this illusion for as long as possible. Ever since awakening in Ithilien he had not been allowed one moment alone. His friends were just expressing their love but Frodo was beginning to feel stifled and suspected that if he declared his intention to remain ashore Sam would also pull out. Unusually, despite his mistrust of boats, Sam seemed to be looking forward to the excursion. Perhaps it was the size of the ship that gave him more confidence. Or was it simply that after Mordor there was little that could now frighten Samwise the Brave. Whatever the reason, Frodo decided to leave advising them of his decision until the morning of their departure. As the others were piling baggage on the quay, Frodo broke the news. This was followed by an exasperating hour, persuading Sam that he should still go.

“Frodo?” Legolas' voice drew him from reverie, and the elf smiled encouragingly as his friends eyes finally drifted into focus. “You must drink something.” 

The very thought of it set Frodo's stomach roiling again. “No, thank you” he managed to whisper, around a tongue that felt too big for his mouth. 

“I am sorry, but I must insist. You are feverish and it will grow worse if you do not drink. Surely you would like some cool water?” To tempt him, Legolas dipped long fingers in a cup and touched them to Frodo’s lips. The cool moisture did feel good on cracked lips, but the thought of having to sit up to drink was more than he could bear. Not to be denied, however, Legolas slipped an arm beneath Frodo’s pillow, lifting his friend’s head just a little. 

Even that little was too much. White-hot spears of pain shot through his head and down his back. He wanted to retreat to the blackness again but his mind would not co-operate, so he could only clench his jaw against the pain and his own screams. 

Legolas held the pillow still, as he waited for him to calm. “It will pass Frodo,” he murmured softly. 

When Frodo could breathe once more Legolas trickled a little water between his lips. Frodo swallowed, purely because at this point it was easier than fighting. 

“This will help to relieve the pain. Drink it all if you can.” 

More of the bitter concoction from earlier was poured into his mouth and Frodo was too weak even to gag. Finally, he was lowered into a prone position. The, now cool, cloth on his forehead was removed and Legolas used it to dab away the tears that were rolling back into his hair. There was a sound of splashing water and Darien draped a warm damp cloth across his brow once more. 

Frodo lay still, trying to will the pain away, as his memory returned once more to the events of the morning and the beloved faces of his friends. He had awoken with a mild headache that day and after an hour of trying to reason with a very stubborn Sam he grew irritable and finally snapped. 

“For goodness sake, Sam. I’m not made of glass. I don’t need you following me around, waiting for me to shatter.” Frodo repented immediately when he saw the hurt in his friends’ eyes. “I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve that.” His touch on Sam's shoulder was a little hesitant. “It’s just that I've had enough adventure for a while. I do appreciate the concern everyone has shown me, but I’ve been leaning on you all for too long. It’s time I stood on my own two feet again.” 

Sam still didn’t look convinced but at least he did not pull away from Frodo's touch. 

“Please forgive me, Sam. I really didn’t mean to hurt you, but there is no reason for you to forgo something you’ve been looking forward to for days. Anyway, I could use the time to catch up on my reading.” He tried a tentative smile and was relieved when Sam finally nodded.

Sam looked earnestly into Frodo’s face. “Of course you can look after yourself, Mr Frodo. I’m sorry if I’ve coddled too much, and I do understand. I'm looking forward to getting' back to the Shire and ordinary livin' too.” The others had moved away a little, checking their gear whilst obviously trying not to appear to be listening. 

“Thank you.” Frodo squeezed Sams’ shoulder. “Legolas and Gimli are still here and I promise that if I feel as though I’m going to shatter I will call them.” Frodo let his smile broaden, folding his arms and leaning against a low wall. The stone was sun-warmed and a cool breeze was worrying its way through his coat. “Now, go and join the others. They’re waiting and you’ll miss the tide. It would not do to keep a king waiting. I promise I’ll be alright.” The others said their goodbyes, and Frodo retreated to the warmth of his room. 

Whatever Frodo had been given to drink was beginning to take effect at last, but whilst it reduced the pounding in his head, it also made him drowsy. He was dimly aware of voices and tried to put names to them, but they kept fading in and out of his hearing.

“He...likely grow worse before...better.” Darien.

“Why now? ...weeks since he was stung...vile creature.” Legolas.

“Orc draughts...strangely may have postponed...reaction.” Darien

“Can...help him?” Legolas.

“Not encountered...spider sting.” Darien

“I have...never one this bad.” Legolas.

-0-

Aware that time had moved on without him for a while, Frodo opened his eyes again. Firelight still flickered on the high ceiling. He turned his head, gingerly, toward the sound of Legolas’ voice. The elf was singing softly, sitting in a high backed chair at the bedside, while the red glow of the fire glinted in the spun gold of his hair. One, long fingered hand rested lightly upon Frodo’s right one. Normally, Frodo would have withdrawn from the touch, still wanting to hide the gap of his missing finger, but every muscle in his body was aching, and he had not the energy. 

Legolas reached the end of his song, and smiled when he realised he was being watched. Frodo was once more struck by how young he looked, but looks were deceiving where elves were concerned, and he knew that Legolas had lived among the trees of Mirkwood for perhaps thousands of years. The healer, Darien, came to stand at the elf’s shoulder. 

“How do you feel now, Master Baggins?” Frodo swallowed, his mouth still dry and haunted by the bitter taste of medicine. 

“A little better,” he whispered. “What happened? Why am I so ill?” He felt wretched, and not just because of the physical sickness. He had wanted to be alone and had certainly got his wish. There was no Sam or Gandalf to comfort him, and he felt almost more alone than he had since standing at the edge of the Cracks of Doom.

Darien lifted the cloth from Frodo’s forehead to wring it out in a bowl of mint scented water and Legolas used the opportunity to smooth back his friend’s hair. His touch was light, seeming to ease the ache a little, and Frodo closed his eyes, letting Legolas’ soft touch and gentle voice soothe him. 

“When you told us of your journey through Mordor you mentioned being stung by a large spider. Do you remember?” 

Frodo shuddered. “Yes. It was horrible. I must have been unconscious for hours, before I awoke in that awful tower.” He was beginning to feel rather hot and chilled at the same time and his stomach was unsettled. Darien replaced the warm cloth on his forehead. 

“The orcs gave you something to counteract the poison but Darien believes that it may only have postponed the effects. How does your neck feel?” 

“Sore and stiff” replied Frodo. Suddenly, he was drenched in perspiration and, at the same time, cold and knew that he had lost the battle with his stomach. He tried to roll over “Sorry.” 

Fortunately, it seemed both Legolas and Darien had noticed his increasing discomfort, and a bowl was set exactly where it needed to be. Darien slipped onto the bed behind his retching patient, holding his head, supporting him with an arm around his chest until Frodo was done. In truth, there was little more than bile. Legolas helped rinse their charge's mouth. They eased Frodo back into the pillows, then stripped off the soaked nightshirt and settled him back, warmly, under light blankets and a soft down-filled quilt. Curled upon his side, Frodo shivered, eyes firmly shut and his breathing coming in deep sobs. Tears squeezed out from beneath lashes, dark against the grey tinged skin. 

Legolas closed his eyes and laid a hand on his friends’ damp and tumbled brown curls. Perhaps he had not Elronds’ skill at healing but he obviously knew a little, and under his touch Frodo began to calm. The sobs faded and a measure of colour returned to his cheeks. By the time Darien returned with a clean bowl and a steaming cup, Frodo was resting more peacefully. That was when Frodo realised that Legolas had become a reassuring presence, and that he no longer felt so alone.

It was clear he had done Legolas a disservice in ever considering him distant and aloof. Reviewing their journey from Rivendell, Frodo realised how much he had taken for granted the elf’s small kindnesses. Legolas had always been there with a helping hand when the path was too steep or a stream too wide for small hobbit strides. On their rest stops Legolas often relieved him of his watch early, allowing Frodo an extra hour or two sleep. And now, when he could easily have turned over his care to Gondor's experienced healers, it was Legolas who held his hand. These thoughts gave him little comfort, however, as another realisation rushed in upon it's heels. The distance that had lain between them was not of Legolas’ making, but Frodo's. Here was but one more of Frodo's failures, to add to a long catalogue from the past year. 

“Master Baggins? I need to get this down you. It will settle your stomach and you must take some liquids or you will feel even worse.” 

Legolas stopped stroking his hair and Frodo wished the comfort of that touch would stay, just a little longer. Instead, he steeled himself for more pain, as he was rolled on to his back and his head was raised once more. A comfortable, familiar vapour filled his nostrils and the rim of a cup touched his lips. Frodo swallowed some of the warm liquid. It brought back tweenage memories of Bag End and Bilbo; the ginger and chamomile tea beginning at once to settle his stomach and ease his head. When he had drunk enough to satisfy the healer, Frodo was lowered gently onto his side in the soft nest, with a cloth wrapped hot water bottle at his stomach. Legolas resumed his seat at the bedside and gently stroked his friends hand as Frodo drifted back into sleep. 

Frodo awoke with a start, aware that he had been entangled in a nightmare, but unable to recall the details. His throat was sore, his head still ached, although not as badly as before, and he was too hot. Daylight was trying to pry its way into the room around tightly closed shutters. 

Legolas was reading the volume that Frodo had fought so hard to decipher. He seemed to have no problem, clear eyes roving swiftly down the page even in the much-reduced light. Clearly relaxed, Legolas leaned against the casement, a cushion behind his shoulders. One lightly shod foot rested upon the seat, bent leg supporting the book, while the other foot rested lightly upon the floor. 

Not a hair on his head was out of place and Frodo sighed. He could not imagine any situation that Legolas could not handle. Perhaps things would have gone differently if he had been given the task of taking the ring to Mordor. Would he have succeeded, where a mere hobbit had not? Legolas seemed to sense Frodo's’ gaze and closed the book. Rising with a feline grace, his steps were a mere whisper as he crossed the room to the bedside.

“Would you like something to drink?” 

“Yes please. Could I have some water?” 

Legolas smiled and filled a cup from the jug on the bedside table. Frodo clenched his teeth at the pain as his head was lifted, but managed to drain the cup, the cool water soothing his throat. The elf then brought a smaller cup to his mouth. Frodo recognised the bitter medicine of the previous evening and swallowed it, unresisting, aware that it would soon ease his headache. Once finished, Legolas lowered his head again and tenderly smoothed a few stray curls back off Frodo’s damp forehead. He felt unworthy of the concern that the small action implied. 

“Can I do anything else for you, Frodo?” 

“No thank you, Legolas. You shouldn’t be wasting your time here. I’m sure you have more important things to do than look after a sick hobbit. I’m afraid I’m being an awful burden to you” 

Legolas perched upon the edge of Frodo's’ bed, causing the mattress to dip not an inch. The little furrow between his brows appeared again. “A friend is never a burden, Frodo.” He took up Frodo's hand, where it rested on the coverlet. “What were you thinking, just then? You looked so wistful.” 

Perhaps it was the medicine he had just taken or perhaps it was simply that he was too weary to dissemble, but Frodo threw open his heart to the compassionate face before him. “Oh Legolas, I feel such a fraud. Everyone keeps heaping praise on me for destroying the ring but, were it not for Smeagol, all would have been lost. The ring had taken hold of me completely and I could not have given it up. I failed. It should have been someone strong, like you, who took up the quest. I was a fool to even imagine that I would succeed.” He could feel scalding tears roll down his face onto the pillow. “I have made so many mistakes.”

Legolas studied Frodo's mutilated right hand, clasped loosely in his own. “Frodo, if I had taken up the task of ring-bearer I doubt I would have fared any better that you. In fact, I would probably not have held out for as long as you did, against the taste of power the ring offered.” 

Frodo stared at him through tear misted eyes. “But you are so much stronger and wiser than I.” 

Legolas' shook his head, slowly. “You give me more credit than I deserve. I have made mistakes in my life, too.” He smiled a little ruefully. “Do not forget, I have had many more years in which to make them. Yet we are, all of us, formed by the things that happen to us, both good and evil.” 

Frodo sniffed and tried to blink away his tears. “I can’t imagine you ever making a mistake.” He was surprised to see a look of pain cross his companion's face and the Prince of Mirkwood lowered his eyes. 

“I think you forget it was I who was responsible for guarding Gollum when he was held in Mirkwood. Did you think it was merely chance that I was sent to Elrond to advise of the creatures escape? My father considered it fitting punishment, that I be the one to tell Aragorn that I had failed in the charge he and Gandalf placed upon my family.”

Frodo stared at his friends lowered face for some moments as he tried to imagine what had been going through Legolas’ mind as he made the long journey to Rivendell. Each step of the way he would have been painfully aware that he had let down his father, disappointed his friend, possibly angered a wizard, and that all this would have to be confessed, before a Noldorean elf of Elrond's lineage. His humiliation must have been intense. 

“I’m sorry, Legolas. I am afraid I had not considered it until now.” 

Legolas squeezed Frodo's fingers in acknowledgement and lifted a face that was set resolute. He looked deep into Frodo’s eyes. “And yet, if I had not been at the council, I would not have joined the quest. If I had not joined the quest, I would not have been able to influence many other events, and all may have been lost. My failure in the past formed what I am become and what I may yet do. And it is the same for you, Frodo.” 

Frodo's heart stumbled. 

“You say you failed, and yet the ring was destroyed. You have survived. What you see as your failure has affected who you are now, and will affect who you will be in the future. But how it will affect you, depends greatly upon you. I have watched you struggle in these past weeks. Do not live, forever, in that moment of failure, Frodo. Embrace the lesson it has to teach. Then move on.”

Frodo felt the tight band constricting his heart, suddenly snap. He smiled weakly. “Legolas. You have been more of a friend than I realised and I have not loved you as you deserved. Will you forgive me?” 

The elf’s dimples appeared again as he smiled broadly. “There is nothing to forgive, between friends.” He stood. “Now you should rest and recover, or I suspect Sam will not be so forgiving, and I am uncertain how either of us would move on from that!” 

Frodo smiled. “That would never do. We must not let him know that his precious glass shattered after all. Thank you, Legolas.” He closed his eyes and settled himself to slip back into healing sleep. Legolas pulled a chair to the bedside and sat down to watch over him, once more enfolding the broken right hand in his long, cool, fingers. 

Frodo felt calm for the first time in months; at peace. He did not know what healing would be his in the future, but he had found some measure here. There would be a future for him. 

Legolas was right. It was time to move on.

THE END


End file.
